


Broken Glass

by Lady_Akuma_Wolf



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: 2018 Update: I will return to this, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Drug Use, Hallucinations, I'm stuuuuck, Nightmares, Omega Joan, Other, Past Abuse, Scars, Self-Harm, Suicide, TEMPORARY Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-11-07 04:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11050995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Akuma_Wolf/pseuds/Lady_Akuma_Wolf
Summary: Alpha Sherlock's Alpha Father hires a Beta sober companion for his wayward son. Said Beta companion has way more in her past than she wants anyone to know about - too bad Sherlock is good at seeing underneath the underneath.He's not the perfect Alpha his father thinks he is - never has been. He lacks the aggression and typical dominance of the Alphas; logic and words are his weapons, not his fists and muscles. He's never felt the need to form his own pack, or take a mate, or even be protective. Hormones and pheromones don't phase him. He's an Alpha without the drives.Until Joan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> had this a long while, will be very slow in updates - I have others, such as my supernatural stories - to finish first. But will continue, have plans for a few more chapters.
> 
> Canon-esque, with a lot of writer's creativity advantages taken.

He knew she was different from the moment she first stepped into the room.

His father had informed him he’d hired Sherlock a sober companion, a Beta female who would blend in, keep an eye on him, and not kick in his (non-existent) Alpha instincts into high gear like an Alpha or Omega would; not that his father knew, or bothered to find out, that his son wasn’t the perfect Alpha he thought he was.

She smelled normal enough, under the light scenting of vanilla perfume. Her face was unremarkable, not soft and pretty like an Omega, and not hard and beautiful like an Alpha. Her height and build were also of Beta standard, though behind her brown eyes there was a spark of intelligence – well, she wouldn’t have been able to become a surgeon without a brain – and there was also patience, and a sense of humor.

But behind all of that she was thoroughly cracked, a spider web of shards barely held together by will and pain, though she hid it quite well. Sherlock doubted anyone else would have seen it besides him. His research into her past hadn’t turned up anything remarkable, especially to warrant whatever she was hiding.

She also wasn’t a Beta.

He wondered how she had managed it, how she had gotten away with it.

Drugs, he supposed, though vastly different from the ones she was supposed to keep him from returning to. He knew there were medical suppressants for Omegas to keep their heats on a schedule and to prevent them from going into an unexpected heat. There were also other, more nefarious ones used by more traditional Alphas to trigger a heat at will; they were illegal in most states, barring a few in the south, such as Texas and the Carolinas. But this… this was something altogether different; her scent was altered so drastically there wasn’t even a faintest whiff of Omega.

He hadn’t brought it up, figuring she had her reasons. Far be it from him to – well, who was he kidding. He invaded her privacy first chance he got, searching her room for her stash, out of curiosity more than anything. He had no wish to expose her – there were a few Omega doctors, though they mainly were in Pediatrics and OBGYN fields, not surgery. But for an Omega to veil themselves, to lie to the government? Not a good idea, even in the most liberal states.

He never did find her stash; a first for him, failing at finding something hidden away. It made him all the more curious, searching for clues and answers, and still coming up empty.

It was infuriating. She was like a half-finished puzzle with most of the pieces missing, and some of the ones which were present and put together didn’t match up to make a recognizable picture.

He was surprised when she was able to hold her ground against him when he lost his temper with her, holding his raging gaze with a calm, but stern, one of her own. She had been strong for him when he had been at his weakest, from when he found out the truth about Irene – no. Moriarty. Irene wasn’t real, never had been real.

And when their six weeks was up, and she contacted his father about staying on longer, he knew when she said he had agreed that she was lying. Instead of being upset about her deception, he found himself oddly touched that she enjoyed his company enough to stay on without pay. He was glad, too; he was finding that he enjoyed her company, both on and off of cases. She was even starting to pick up a few things (and he would start teaching her more soon) while out on cases with him.

It was after they helped the police take down an illegal Omega brothel, saving over two dozen Omegas from being further raped and tortured that Watson had her first nightmare. He had still been awake, rearranging his lock collection by how quick he suspected Watson could get them open (he wanted to start teaching her lock-picking soon) when he heard her scream. His wood stick was in his hands as he flew up the stairs, without a thought of calling the police; a heavy thump from her bedroom only made him run faster.

He found her on the floor next to her bed, sheets wrapped tightly around her as she struggled to get free; her laptop lay in the middle of the room. Once he saw there was no attacker but merely a nightmare, he dropped his weapon to kneel down next to her, helping her free herself.

“Sorry,” she had murmured, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, brushing a lock of sleep-mussed hair out of her face.

“It’s quite alright, I was still up.” He had replied as he assisted her, grabbing the laptop and placing it gently on the trunk at the foot of her bed.

She smiled. “Rearranging your locks again?”

“Yes. When I’m done they’ll be organized from least complex to open to most difficult. You’ll be starting lock-picking this weekend, now that the case has been wrapped up.”

The case, apparently, had not been a smart comment to make. She flinched. Barely discernable, merely a very slight tightening of her shoulders and dropping of her gaze. All of which she covered by gathering the sheet and getting to her feet.

That was the first time he had caught the briefest trace of her Omega scent; vanilla, just like the perfume she wore. Now her choice made sense. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Watson glance warily at him as she started to remake the bed with his assistance; she must have noticed her scent as well. He didn’t comment on it, just helped her put her bed to right.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked when they were done.

She finally met his eyes. “I’m fine, Sherlock. It was just a stupid nightmare.”

A lie. Or at least, partially. Most likely a suppressed memory, or something she had tried and failed to forget or bury. He had a feeling the memory and her fear were tied to why he caught glimpses of brokenness in her eyes.

He bit his tongue to keep himself from making comments about nightmares being human’s subconscious way of dealing with problems.

A week later she had two more, five days apart. And another the week after that.

The fifth one happened only two days after the forth. When he reached her room, she hadn’t come out of yet; he could smell her fear and panic before he even opened the door. She was screaming through clenched teeth, her back arched against her mattress, arms stretched out above her head. Her nails scrambled for invisible purchase against the opposite wrist, as if she was trying to get something off; her nails were jagged and broken from hitting the headboard, leaving bleeding wounds on her skin. Her computer had been kicked onto the floor feet from her bed; she must’ve been trying to keep herself awake by reading.

Sherlock knelt on the bed with one knee and grabbed her wrists, separating her hands to prevent further damage, ignoring the feeling of her blood on his hands.

“Watson!” he said loudly, attempting to shake her while keeping her hands away from the opposite wrist. “Watson, wake up!”

“Get them off!” was her reply, sobbed out of her raw throat. “Please, get them off!”

She was still trying to scratch whatever bindings she thought she had on off, so he didn’t dare release one of her wrists to shake her awake.

Moving quickly during one of her more still moments, Sherlock switched his hands around before lifting her by her wrists, lifting her body – she was lighter than she looked, something he didn’t like – and slid himself in between her and the headboard.

“Breathe, Watson,” he murmured, holding her tightly against his chest as she struggled against his hold. “Wake up. Nothing, no one is going to hurt you.”

 His thumbs rubbed circles on the back of her hands as he spoke, continuing to murmur softly in her ear. She stopped screaming after forty-seven seconds; her struggles took a lot longer. But, after seven minutes and thirty-one seconds, Watson’s struggles subsided into a stiff body and muscle twitches.

To his surprise, he didn’t feel the need to immediately lay her back down on the bed and leave. Being here with her in his arms was far more intimate than he’d been with a woman in, well, a very long time. Sex was sex, in his opinion. The act itself could be intimate, but without a pre-existing emotional connection – something his sexual relationships lacked – it was not intimate. But to hold and cuddle, with someone of importance, with emotions involved? He hadn’t done that since M – he refused to even think her name – and there had been no one prior or since.

Until Joan Watson.

Sherlock cautiously released her wrists and wrapped one arm around her waist, the other cupping her shoulder, running his hand up and down between it and her elbow. Without warning her head dipped to the side, tucking itself neatly under his chin as the rest of her body relaxed.

Sherlock frowned; surely she wasn’t touch-starved?

It was common knowledge – to those with at least a sliver of a brain, and the number of people with less than that was astounding – knew that an Omega didn’t _need_  an Alpha to help them through a heat without dying. But still, Omegas enjoyed touches, cuddling, whether with their mate or platonically with friends of any sex. Surely someone like Watson had people – but no, he interrupted himself. She was supposed to be a Beta; Betas didn’t get touch-starved.

And not to say that all Omegas loved touching outside of a heat or sex; they were all individuals, not a lump sum category (like a sadly large number of people still thought). But with how easily Watson relaxed once her subconscious recognized his voice and scent, and knew the touches were from someone of whom she at least partially trusted, and how her scent was changing from fear to content.

There had to be a reason she was hiding what she was, and he doubted very much with just how well she hid it that anyone knew of her secret. And if no one knew, then she had no one.

Sherlock also knew that Omegas who survived being mistreated or abused could become touch-starved and be able to bury it because they didn’t trust anyone to get close to be that intimate. He wondered if that was the case with Watson, and if it was true, what had happened to her.

He finally roused himself when he glanced down at the top of her head and saw the blood staining the white sheets.

Watson woke up just as he finished bandaging the second wrist.

“Sherlock, you should’ve woken me up,” was the first thing she said to him. “I would’ve cleaned myself up.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze for longer than a few seconds.

“No matter,” he said with false lightheartedness. “You were finally sleeping soundly, and I didn’t want to wake you. You haven’t been getting enough sleep these past few weeks; you’ve been failing to pick up on some very simple things on our last cases.”

She ran a hand through her mussed hair, eyes now fixed on the foot of her bed. “Yeah. Haven’t been sleeping the greatest. But hey,” she finally managed to tear her eyes off the coverlet and up to his face, “we can’t all be like the great Sherlock Holmes, and run on cereal and book dust.”

He’d smiled back at her; hers became more natural after that.

She didn’t have a nightmare for three weeks after that…

…that he knew of.

He’d been going up to the roof to assure himself the latest additions to his apiary where doing well when he passed her closed door; the scent of her terror made him gag.

She was laying still under her covers; the only thing which outwardly showed anything was wrong were her hands clenching white-knuckled to the coverlet.

There was a mostly-empty bottle of prescription sleeping pills half-tucked under the bed dated less than two weeks prior, mostly hidden by the unknown appearance of a bedskirt; she had been taking more than the recommended dose; a lot more.

 

  

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG is this... is this an UPDATE??  
> Trigger Warning: drug abuse/overdosing, reference to nightmares and suicide

When Watson didn’t respond to her name being shouted and her body roughly shaken, and unsure of how many of the sleeping pills Watson could’ve ingested Sherlock ran to their small upstairs bathroom and grabbed the unopened bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide* before hurrying back to her room. Breaking the seal and ripping the lid off, he rolled Watson onto her back, propped her head up and tilted some of the bubbling fluid into her mouth; she swallowed reflexively.

The result was… messy. And smelly. But the vomit on the bed, Watson, and him meant anything left of the pills – Watson had only gone to bed seventy-eight minutes ago – was removed from her stomach and unable to be absorbed any further into her bloodstream.

It also woke her up, coughing and spluttering as stomach acids undoubtedly burned the back of her throat and nose, Sherlock holding her hair out of her face.

“What… what are you doing… up here…”

Her voice was hoarse, like sandpaper over glass.

“What were you _thinking_ , taking some many pills?!” he demanded, ignoring her question. He was shaking with anger. “You could have  _killed_ yourself if you took too many!” And what would I do then? What would I do if you died? was left unsaid, even to himself.

Her chuckle was forced. “I might no longer be practicing, but I know how to do medical dosing of medications. I still have my reference books as well as my own knowledge. I know what I’m doing.” She reached for the glass of water on the table next to her bed. “I’m not suicidal.”

He growled at her blasé attitude. “You wanted to silence your nightmares, which impairs your judgement and makes you think and act irrational.”

“If I wanted myself dead, I would’ve done it a long time ago.” Her glare was fierce when she finally looked up and met his gaze. “I wouldn’t do it here and now.”

Sherlock stiffened at the implication that she had considered ending her life at one time, or perhaps more than once. Right after the rage at such a thought, he wondered what would have driven her to such a drastic point. Beyond that was the sickening dread at the possibility she had actually  _tried_ to commit suicide.

“Why are you trying to hide your nightmares from me?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice from shaking with adrenaline and rage an only being marginally successful.

“Because I don’t want to keep being a bother. What happens if your mind is focused on a case, and is about to put all the pieces together when you’re interrupted by me having a nightmare?” She started to say more, but coughing racked her frame. “Sorry. I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

“I can be focused on a case, assist you and then return to the case. I am brilliant, after all.” _N_ _o_ case is more important than making sure you’re safe.

Watson snorted, shaking her head. “Yes you are. Doesn’t mean I want to add my problems to your plate.”

“You’ve helped me through so much. Why are you so set in not allowing me to reciprocate?” he asked, confused. He had thought their new partnership was more of a two-way street.

“That’s different,” she retorted. “I was hired to be your sober companion. I did and am doing my job. Now we’ve added… I’m not even sure what to call it. Side kick, apprentice, student, whatever. Your brain, while brilliant, is different than anyone else I’ve ever met. They’re just nightmares, Sherlock. I’ll manage.”

Sherlock swallowed a growl. “By overdosing?” he grabbed her hand and turning it palm up, displaying the healing scars from the last nightmare he had woken her from. “What are you dreaming about that is so bad you’re doing this to yourself? What is so bad you’re overdosing on sleeping medication?!” He had noticed her subtle flinch when he grabbed her wrist, and chose to ignore it. He hated that, even unconsciously, worn down by her nightmares, that she would be wary or even afraid of him, but wanted – _needed_ – answers.

But apparently Watson wasn’t in the mood to give them. “My nightmares are my own business, Sherlock.” She informed him flatly. “I’m handling them –”

“You call this handling them?” Sherlock interrupted, eyes flashing.

Watson glared at him for the interruption. “I’m handling them,” she repeated. “It’s either I drug myself asleep, or I stay awake and am useless on cases. Which would you prefer?” Not giving him a chance to reply, she pointed at the door. “Out. I’m going to clean this mess up before it sets, and shower.”

He attempted to argue with her, make her go shower and brush her teeth while he cleaned her vomit up – pointing out it was his fault she had thrown up after all – but she once again held her ground, shooing (shoving) him out of her room.

Finally throwing his hands up in defeat, he went up to the rooftop to check on the new arrivals as well as take some time to think, and come up with a plan.

He knew she had family. She had mentioned them a few times but to his knowledge she never met up or spoke with them. He had seen the contract she had signed with his father; she hadn’t listed an emergency contact, family member or friend. He had to wonder why.

Had her family not approved of her hiding her Omega gender? Did they even know? He could see Watson having the brain to hide it from them, finding a way to get herself on suppressants even as a teenager.

But why hide being an Omega? The most logical answer was her family was traditional, and would arrange a marriage for her, selling her off to some Alpha with deep pockets and unknown mindset. Just thinking about Watson ‘belonging’ to an abusive Alpha sent Sherlock to pacing the rooftop.

Or _had_ they sold her, and she had run away? How she had managed that, escaping from the purchasing Alpha and even the law… she would’ve had to change her name, appearance, and gotten herself onto suppressants as well as scent-changers. And then to have found a way to go to college, and become a surgeon… he dearly wanted to know how she had managed it all.

An abusive family, or Alpha, would explain her nightmares. It would also explain the timing, right after seeing all of the abused Omegas at the brothel, brought back memories she had locked away. It also explained the fact she was touch starved. He could hardly blame her – or any other Omega – for not trusting someone close to them after being used in such a fashion as some Alphas treated their or any Omega.

How he could find out the truth was the main question now. He cared for Watson, and knew she would be furious at him for invading her privacy, especially something as dark as this seemed to be. Sherlock hated not knowing something, and wasn’t someone who backed down from such a challenge. It wasn’t as if he was going to turn her in, or hold it over her as a threat to make her compliant; he liked her just as she was – outside of not trusting him with the truth, and no matter how that irritated him he understood – he just wanted to know.

Where to start was the next question. Sherlock briefly considered approaching Captain Gregson or Detective Bell, knowing they cared enough about her that he could see them looking the other way about her hiding her Omega status, but also knew they cared enough about Watson that they wouldn’t want to invade her privacy without a really good reason. Marcus would must likely be the easier one to convince, but the request for assistance would have to be worded extremely carefully…

OoOoO

Sadly, Sherlock’s investigation into Watson’s shadowed past would have to wait. Upon finally retiring from the rooftop he found several missed calls from Mycroft as well as one from his father’s company; only his brother had left a voicemail.

“Sherlock, listen. Father was in a car accident. He’s… he’s still in surgery. They’re trying to reduce the swelling in his brain… and something about reinflating his right lung. Apparently the bloody idiot wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. Just…” he sighed heavily. “Please come home, Sherlock. They’re… they’re not sure he gonna make it out of surgery. If he does, they suspect he may have brain damage… permanent damage. I’m about to board a plane right now. Look. Even if you in your pigheaded stubbornness don’t want to come for our father, come for yourself. If father is incapacitated, or dies, the Board has every right to halt the payments into your personal spending account. If you won’t come for Father, come for yourself.”

Click.

Sherlock stared down at his phone. The call had come in almost an hour ago. Mycroft was most likely in the air by now, and unable to answer his phone. Instead he called his father’s office.

“Your Father was in an accident?”

Watson was leaning against the doorframe wearing a clean pair of pajamas, hair damp from her shower.

“It would appear so.” Sherlock replied, waiting impatiently for his father’s secretary to answer the damn phone. “The fool wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. He was still in surgery when Mycroft called me an hour ago. Brain swelling and a punctured lung.”

“You should go,” she replied immediately. “Even if they get the swelling down in his brain, there is still a possibility of brain damage, temporary or not. Even if not, an accident that bad… you should be there for your father, with Mycroft.”

Growling in frustration when the answering machine clicked on, apologizing for the inconvenience and asking to please leave a message. Hanging up, he turned to look at Watson. “How much of my brother’s message did you hear?”

“Most of it.” She replied. “Something about him maybe not coming out of surgery.” Then Watson frowned. “Can they really cut off your money?”

Sherlock scowled as he started to pace. “My Father no doubt has it set up in such a way that I need to come over there to sign papers. A safety precaution to insure I actually come back to him should something happen to him. He can order Mycroft to return, but his Alpha Voice has never really worked well on me.”

Watson nodded. She understood Sherlock, and even Mycroft, had a very strained relationship with their Father. She had gotten the impression even from her limited interactions with the man that he was a hard man to get along with. She couldn’t even begin to imagine growing up with him as a father, especially given how ‘different’ Sherlock was, Alpha or not.

“Then it sounds like you need to go.” She said. “At least pretend to be mildly concerned, and make sure everything is in order.”

Even though he knew she was right, Sherlock didn’t like it any less. He detested his Father, to put it mildly. He also didn’t like being forced to do anything by anyone, especially his Father, let alone fly back to England to deal with his Father and his company. He also didn’t like the thought of leaving Watson alone.

As if she could read his mind, Watson said, “Sherlock, I’ll be fine. Go. It’ll only be a few days. I can manage on my own for that.” As if to prove her wrong, her body chose that moment to decide to have another coughing fit. “I’m _fine_.” She added with a stern look. “I’m a doctor. I can handle a cold.”

Sherlock desperately wanted to argue with her, but knew it was pointless. Instead, he got logged onto the internet and booked a ticket to England, leaving later that morning. After that, he made Watson go back to bed while he packed (and called Ms. Hudson to see if she could come and stay with Watson. Sadly she had to decline, as she was overseas herself caring for a dying sibling).

More than slightly frustrated, Sherlock called Mycroft’s cell and left a voicemail. “Fine, fine, I got your message. You’ll be pleased to know I have purchased a ticket back to England and will be leaving later this morning. Call me with an update as soon as you find anything more about Father. Leave a message if I don’t answer.”

When Watson got up again, her creamy skin seemed a few shades lighter, and her cough was much more pronounced and wet-sounding. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her nose was red as well.

“Judging by the sound of your cough, you have much more than just a cold.” He pointed out as he put the kettle on, motioning for her to have a seat. “Hot lemon tea with honey will help your throat feel better. I also recommend a hot shower, even if you don’t get in; the humidity will help loosen the phlegm in your chest.” He knew it was foolish of him to offer a doctor medical advice, but he also knew that doctors in general did tend to not care for themselves very well.

She eyed him suspiciously as she took the offered seat. “Did you book a ticket home?” she asked hoarsely.

Sherlock frowned. “ _T_ _his_ is home. But yes, I purchased a ticket. The flight leaves in three hours.”

“Good.” Watson replied, placing her head in her hands, rubbing her temples.

Sherlock vanished to the main bathroom for a moment before returning. “Here,” he offered two Ibuprofen and a small glass bottle of peppermint oil** “Use the peppermint oil on your temples, behind your ears, and the back of your neck. A little goes a long ways. It’ll help until the pills kick in.”

Turning his attention to the whistling teapot, Sherlock turned the burner off, filling the largest mug they had with hot water. Grabbing the tin of loose lemon tea, he filled the tea ball before letting it start to seep and grabbed the honey. He knew that, while she ate as healthily as she could, Watson did enjoy sweets. And honey was a natural sweetener, and would soothe her throat.

“Here,” he set the mug in front of her, taking in her dry hands and tightly wrapped sweater, red, puffy eyes and messy hair. He held his wrist to her forehead, ignoring her raspy protests. “You have a fever.”

“Yeah, I know, Sherlock.” She retorted, but her voice was weak without the heat. Then it hardened. “Don’t you dare change your mind about going to see your father just because I’m sick. How would you explain that him, and your brother, and the Board? Besides, what could you do but possibly get yourself sick as well? You need to go.”

None of them would understand him staying to care for his sick ‘roommate’ as they would think, or worse, girlfriend. He shuddered internally at the thought. No one could even begin to understand what he and Watson had. And to be honest, he had started thinking about staying home with her. Not that there was much he could do, as she had pointed out. He needed to go to England.

But she was right.

“You call me, at least twice a day, and let me know how you’re doing.” He said firmly, leaving no room for her to argue with him. “I’ll call the Captain and tell him I’ll be gone and you’re sick, so we can’t take any cases currently.” And perhaps a call to Bell to have him check in on her as well.

OoOoO

The flight was uneventful. When he landed and was finally allowed to check his phone, there was a short message from Mycroft telling him to come to the hospital, and gave him the address, and a room number.

Catching a cab, Sherlock debated on whether his brother’s lack of an update on their father was a good or bad sign. Surely he would have told him if their Father had passed. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he felt it better to do so in person, so he wouldn’t be travelling with such heavy news on his mind. The lack of a positive update was not reassuring.

Of all of the possibilities his mind had been conjuring up, the sight of Mycroft seated next to their Father, conscious and sitting upright in a hospital bed, right arm strapped to his chest, clumsily using his left hand to poke and the rubbery-looking powdered scrambled eggs on a cheap plastic plate had not been anywhere on the list.

He glared at the pair of them from just inside the doorway. “You look awfully well for someone supposedly dying, Father.” He glared at Mycroft, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Morland Holmes at least had the grace to blush. “I was in an accident, and did have a collapsed lung. I also have a concussion, a broken tibia, and a couple of broken ribs, not mention a nice assortment of scrapes and bruises.” He glanced at his other son. “And you can’t blame Mycroft; he thought the same as you until he arrived here late last night.”

“Why the elaborate ruse?” Sherlock demanded, irate. “Why make us think you’re dying?”

Morland sighed. “I’ve been attempting to get the both of you to come over here for a visit for  _months_ , or have the two of you forgotten? Then the accident happened, and I saw it as an opportunity to get the two of you to actually come over.” He winced. “I’m sorry for having to take such dramatic measures, but the two of you didn’t really leave me much of a choice.”

Deciding he had had enough of his Father’s faux groveling, Sherlock demanded, “What do you want, Father? What is so important that it could not be discussed over the phone, or by email?”

“You mean besides the fact you’re nearly impossible to get ahold of?” Mycroft retorted before their father could reply. “This is all your fault.”

“My fault?” Sherlock spat. “All I wanted was to be left alone. Watson and I are assisting the city police with their more complicated cases; it is very enjoyable and mentally stimulating. Watson –” He caught the look that flashed behind his Father’s eyes at the mentions of Watson. “What is it? What is your interest in Watson?”

Mycroft, too, was watching their Father with renewed interest; while he had a soft spot for Joan, he knew his brother loved the Beta, odd though that was (and not as if his brother would ever admit his feelings for his companion, even to himself), and the fact their Father had an interest in her as well was… odd.

Morland frowned before sighing. “I thought that when I told her I wasn’t going to renew her contract that she would leave you. When she didn’t, I began to suspect her being interested in snaring you, and your money.” He held up a finger to silence Sherlock’s outrage. “Let me finish.” He demanded. “So I had some people do some digging into Miss Watson’s background. Did you know that Joan Watson didn’t exist until fourteen years ago? They haven’t found out who she was prior, but once they do, I plan on handing over my findings to the police; no doubt she has done this sort of thing before, snaring men for their money –”

“Watson…” Sherlock was having difficulty articulating himself, he was shaking so badly with rage. “Watson is not like that. She has never, not once, made a romantic or sexual move on me. She is smart, astute, kind…” he paused. “Whatever you might think of her, whatever your people believe they’ve found or are searching for, it isn’t her.” He turned abruptly on his heel to leave.

“Sherlock, where on Earth do you think you are going?” his Father shouted. “I did not give you permission to leave!”

Sherlock paused at the door, turning to glare at his Father, noticing in his peripheral vision Mycroft staring at their Father in the shock Sherlock was feeling. “I am going _home_ , Father. Home to America. To Watson. To my  _work_. As for your so-called ‘permission’, did you never notice that your Alpha Voice doesn’t work on me? No matter that you’re my Father, you’re not as dominant as I am.”

Morland stared in open shock and surprise at his son.

Sherlock smirked. “Yes. All of those times I listened, I obeyed? I did so to _use_ you, to get what I wanted, or needed, or because it was part of my own plans. You were so sure of yourself and your own power that you didn’t even notice when I started to circumvent your orders, did you?”

“If you want your inheritance, you _will_ listen, and you will obey me! You will remove that _female_ from your life!” Morland snarled; if he hadn’t been restricted to the bed with the pain of broken ribs and a concussion, he would have slapped his errant son.

“I took the liberty of emptying my accounts before I left America.” Sherlock informed him. “They are now somewhere you cannot touch them. I also purchased the Brownstone, so you cannot hold that over our heads, either. As for any future need for money… did you really think I was doing what I do with the police at no cost? The monies Watson and I make, in addition to my savings, are more than enough for the two of us.” Sherlock sneered. “Unlike you, we do not feel the need to have a handful of cars, multiple homes, and our own airplane. As for my relation with Watson, you get utterly no say in that.”

Morland switched gears. “Son, I am merely concerned for your safety. Do you truly know anything about that Watson woman? How do you know you can trust her? I do not wish to see your heart hurt, or worse, you end up with all of your money gone and your body in a gutter. Better you get rid of her now. Better her body in the gutter than yours.”

In a few paces, Sherlock was at his Father’s bedside, grabbing the older man by his collar and roughly shoving him into the bed. “I know enough about her,” he snarled, eyes flashing dangerously as he ignored his brother’s attempts to remove his grip. “I know I can trust her, far, far more than I can trust either of _you_.” He released Morland. “ _Stay_ _away_ from her, from us. Do  _not_ contact me again.”

“Sherlock –” Mycroft began.

“And you,” Sherlock turned his raging glare onto his brother. “You stay away from myself and Watson as well. Do you hear me?” Without waiting for an answer, he stormed out.

Halfway down the deserted hallway, Mycroft caught up to Sherlock. “Sherlock, please, listen to me!”

Sherlock halted, shoving Mycroft away from him. “Why should I even listen to a  _word_ you have to say?!”

“I’m not as dominant as you!” Mycroft hissed. “I’m less than Father! Why else do you think I didn’t call to warn you? As soon as I met with Father, I tried to excuse myself for coffee, but he halted me with that blasted Voice of his and forbade me from contacting you, or anyone else, to warn you of the truth.” He stared into his brother’s eyes. “Sherlock, I swear. I tried, but I couldn’t. And I also had no clue this was about Joan until you arrived.”

“He is wrong about Watson.” Sherlock growled.

“I know.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise.

Mycroft smiled crookedly. “Whether or not he’s telling the truth, that she was someone else before she was Joan Watson, I’m sure she has a perfectly good reason for changing it, changing herself, as well as not telling anyone. It is her right to choose who knows, least of all our damned Father.” He sighed. “Go home, and warn her about Father. I will keep him busy, and try to dissuade the people he has searching, or at least get them to come to me first. Given his concussion, that should help for a week or two. After that…” Mycroft shook his head and shrugged helplessly.

“Well,” Sherlock said, straightening. “Thank you, brother. I was not expecting assistance from you, given your proclivity of obeying Father.”

“It’s not like I have ever had a choice in the matter,” Mycroft grumbled. “I’ve tried, trust me. The results were not pretty.” He waved a hand towards the exit. “Go, before he calls security on you.”

OoOoO

Joan Watson felt like complete crap, and that was putting it mildly. In medical terms, she was pretty sure she had a strong strain of the flu as well as a bad case of bronchitis. She kept making the tea Sherlock has said would help her throat, which it did. The peppermint oil aided her headaches, and when her fever spiked to the point she felt like she was on fire.

Sadly, they were very low on other supplies, such as tissues, cough drops, and flu medicine. Grumbling, she dragged herself up the stairs – she had been dozing off and on on the couch, deciding the stairs were too much for her aching body – to get dressed and walk the four blocks to the little corner grocery/pharmacy. Detective Bell had stopped in once to check on her, but she had sent him on his way. Now she regretted doing so, but couldn’t bring herself to call him for help.

Some time ago – she wasn’t sure how long, fevers tended to mess with your mind about time – she had received a text from Sherlock saying he had landed safely in England and would contact her once he knew the status of his Father. He still hadn’t replied, which could mean he was either still waiting for news, was speaking with his Father, or – God forbid – having to make arrangements for his Father’s body along with Mycroft. With a sigh, she stepped outside.

It was cold, and it had snowed, leaving roughly six inches on the sidewalks where people hadn’t shoveled. By the time she got to the grocery, her feet were soaked though her leaky boots and her legs and face were numb. The heat from the store was more than welcome after the walk.

Lemon/Honey tea, honey cough drops, cough medicine, flu medicine, two boxes of tissue, a dozen eggs, and a box of crackers went into the basket before she headed to the checkout. The cashier and owner, a kindly old man of mixed Asian and Russian decent, notice how sick she looked and offered to have his grandson walk home with her to carry the bags, but she declined, insisting the exercise would help her. He didn’t appear to believe her, but didn’t press the issue.

It was dark by the time she left, wishing after one and a half blocks that she would’ve taken the store owner up on his offer as she coughed, wishing she had also remembered to wear a scarf. At least she had remembered to don her hat and gloves.

It was stopping to cough when Watson first realized she was being followed. It seemed innocent enough, a man out for a walk, perhaps. But the fact his hood was up, shrouding his face, that made her wary. Forcing herself to pick up her pace, she hurried home.

The figure behind her also picked up his pace.

Finally reaching the Brownstone, Watson switched the two bags to her less-dominant hand, taking the keys out and threading them like claw between her fingers, just as Sherlock and Detective Bell had shown her. Right after that a rough hand seized her hat and hair tightly, holding her still. Letting the groceries fall to the ground, Watson attempted to struggle and turn around. A pain in her neck made her cry out hoarsely, and with a strangled yell she turned as far as she could and slashed upwards and then downwards at his face, catching him both times squarely across his face; if she saw right, she even nailed his left eye pretty damagingly as well.

He released her, clutching his eye and swearing. Taking advantage of his release of her arm and jacket, Watson stumbled up the stairs and shoved the key into the lock. She made it inside as her vision started to swim, locking the door behind her, both the standard key lock and the extra three Sherlock had installed. Thankfully, the attacker either was too injured to come after her inside, or didn’t want to.

The pain in her neck, and blurry vision made Watson gingerly reach up and touch the side of her neck to feel and remove the broken tip of a needle.

“Damn it,” she murmured, stumbling into the wall of the hallway to the kitchen.

She managed to make it into the kitchen and grabbed a clean ziplock, dropping the needle tip inside as evidence.

She needed to call 911, or Bell…

She dropped to the floor as she pulled her phone from her pocket, not even managing to turn it on before her blurred vision went black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?  
> Hydrogen Peroxide* - I work at a vet's office. When an animal has eaten decon, or something else, we tell the owner to give Peroxide to make them vomit. Stands to reason it would make a human vomit as well.  
> Peppermint Oil** - it works wonders. I often use it in place of pain medication when I can for headaches as well as PMS and cramps.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: reference to torture, rather graphic description of scars from mutilation of the body including the genitals, rape/non-con, drugging

Sherlock knew something was wrong when he texted, and then called, Watson’s phone when he landed back in New York midafternoon the day following his confrontation with his father and she didn’t answer. Worried she had become worse since his leaving and been admitted to the hospital he called Detective Bell, only to be told the man hadn’t been able to check on Watson since yesterday morning, that he had been at the office working a kidnapping case of a diplomat’s twin twelve year old Alpha daughters.

Growling in frustration, he snapped at the cabbie to hurry.

Of course, as the saying goes: If anything can go wrong, it will: they got stuck in traffic six blocks from the Brownstone due to an accident, bus vs dump truck.

Throwing a handful of bills to the cabbie and not waiting for his change, Sherlock grabbed his suitcase and started walking as quickly as he could home, growling curses at the people who hadn’t bothered to shovel the eight plus inches of snow off the sidewalk in front of their homes.

The spilled food in their small front yard, covered by a few inches of snow, and the obvious signs of a struggle between two people in the snow sent Sherlock flying up the stairs and inside, not knowing if the locked door was a good – that she had escaped and locked herself in – or a bad sign.

“Watson? Watson!”

No answer.

Watson’s set of keys were on the floor of the hall, their tips covered in dried blood, brought marginal relief; she had fought back, and injured her captor. Good. It would seem the lack of two sets of footprints meant she had made it safely inside.

Unless the attacker had picked her up and carried her in, his brain supplied unhelpfully.

The next thing he saw was her phone on the kitchen floor, its screen shattered.

Then he saw Watson herself, crumpled on the ground on her right side and stomach a few feet from her phone. Rushing to her side and dropping to his knees, he could see her mussed hair, and the purpled area on her neck and dried blood dripping down her neck from what looked suspiciously like a needle hole. He could tell she was breathing. He wanted to turn her over, take her in his arms, but he forced himself to first carefully check her for injuries which his moving her could make worse. Not feeling any broken bones, and only a minor lump on her head where it had no doubt struck the floor when she collapsed he carefully rolled her onto her back, her body utterly limp. “Watson?” he said sharply, hoping to rouse her. “Watson! Wake up!”

Her skin was clammy and pasty, covered with a fine sheen of sweat. Her breathing was ragged and shallow. He could smell the sweat, and the fact she had, at some point, soiled herself. A touch of his fingers to her throat told him her heartbeat was unsteady.

“Shit,” he swore fumbling with his phone to call for help.

“…Don’t…”

He stopped, turning his full attention onto Watson, who was blinking up at him as if it was hard to focus, both eyes dilated fully. “Watson, Watson, hush. I’m getting you to the hospital –”

“No.” she flopped a hand, trying to grab him. “No h’spital.”

She was starting to panic, he could smell it.

He could also smell her Omega scent.

Being sick, and being knocked out with drugs for who knew for how long had either made her miss her medication, or overridden it.

Having a bad feeling about not doing so, he set his phone up on the table. “Fine. No hospitals. Are you sure about this?”

Her hand dropped limply onto the wood floor. “Ye…” She started to fade out again.

“No, no. Watson, Stay with me!” He shook her gently. “Watson, stay awake. Talk to me. Tell me what happened. Someone attacked you?”

Watson tried to force her eyes open and look at him, and kept failing. “Went… went to th’ store… tea… gr’bed me at… at th’ door…”

“I saw.” He stroked a strand of hair off her forehead. “I also saw the bloody keys; good for you. We’ll get them to Detective Bell and we’ll find out who attacked you.”

She nodded stiffly. “N’dle…”

He frowned. “Needle? I saw what looked like an injection site on your neck.” He crouched down to look at it better. “Did it break off in your neck when you fought him off?”

She nodded jerkily. “Table.. bagged ‘t.” she breathed in roughly. “Ketamine*... Curare, too, I... think...”

Sherlock swallowed a snarl as he cupped her cheek. Ketamine, one of the most common date-rape drugs. It explained her current situation, as did a low dose of Curare - if it had been a strong one, he would've found her dead, not unconscious. He hated to think of what might’ve happened to His Watson if she hadn’t fought off her attacker and gotten away. Once he found who this man was… but his rage wouldn’t help right now.

“Are there any other wounds?” he asked. When she shook her head, he continued, “I’m going to carry you upstairs. We need to get you cleaned up.”

As he expected, she protested. “No… I …c’n do it.. m’self…”

“Watson, you can barely move. You’re very sick, and got heavily dosed with Ketamine.” He didn’t want to think right now how she new  _exactly_ that it was Ketamine. “I am not going to do anything but help you get cleaned up.”

She stared up at him – or attempted to. Between the fever and the Ketamine still in her system, she could barely focus on his face, let alone meet his eyes. Her Omega scent was growing stronger, and he knew even she could scent it. Weakly she tried to push his hand off her shoulder, trying to roll herself so she could get up, barely managing get herself into a sitting position leaning again the closest table leg. “No… no…”

He caught her as she fell, keeping her head from striking the floor. She tried to push him off again, her mantra of ‘no’ growing more panicked and weak, words slurring together.

“Watson, enough!” he shouted; she froze. Gentling his voice, he cupped her face, raising her chin until she was looking at him, he continued, “Watson, I know. I’ve known since day one.” Fear blossomed in her eyes. “I’m willing to bet you’ve figured out I’m not exactly a typical Alpha.” When she nodded hesitantly, he continued, “I’m not going to force myself on you; I never would. Not on you, not on anyone. I’m also not going to report you; if I was going to, don’t you think I would’ve a long time ago?”

She nodded hesitantly, eyes still focused as hard as she could on his own, though her body hadn’t relaxed.

He continued, “All I’m going to do is bathe you and get you cleaned up, nothing more. Do you trust me?”

It took Watson a moment to reply as she inhaled deeply, no doubt attempting to scent for the pheromones he lacked. It hurt that she couldn’t just use her experiences with him to reply, but the major, rational part of him understood that given her situation, now and most likely several in her past, she had to rely on scent and not personal experience.

“Yes,” she finally said softly, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. “Thank you, Watson.” She started to go limp again in his arms. “Watson! Stay awake!”

She forced her eyes open again, but he could tell it was a struggle for her as he gathered her into his arms – he was stronger than he looked, and she was too thin. By the time they arrived in the upstairs bathroom, she had almost passed out again, despite him telling her sharply to stay awake and her fighting the darkness of unconsciousness. Laying her down on the large bathmat, he turned the faucet, running it as hot as he dared as he made sure there were fresh towels and a clean set of pajamas for afterwards.

Next was the tricky part. She was only in jeans and a sweater under the jacket. She tried to help him, but her body was still widely out of her control. When he reached for the button on her pants, the scent of her fear – and shame – spiked again. He paused, meeting her eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you, or force myself on you,” he repeated. “As for the soiling, there is nothing for you to be ashamed of.”

She didn’t say a word, merely nodded her permission for him to continue, though shame still colored her scent and cheeks.

He kept his gaze clinical as he removed her shirt and bra, lifting her into the now-full tub. Frowning when his hand on her back touched raised flesh, he peered at her bare skin. It was a mess of torn flesh from a range of implements, ranging from whips to brands to blades. They were all healed white, showing they were old enough to have been at least five years ago. Some of the scars continued down her buttocks, or wrapped around her ribcage to her chest, which was also marred; there was even a nasty, scooped wound on her left breast, and both nipples had been cut off.

“I’m going to want an explanation when you’re better,” he murmured to her as he leaned her back against the tub, suppressing a raged snarl at the sight of all of her scars. She was a friend. He was allowed to be enraged at the sight of her old wounds.

It wasn’t anything more than that, right?

Watson didn’t answer; she had passed out again. Sherlock muttered curses as she started to slide to the side of the tub, her body limp again.

Coming to a decision, he stripped off his pants, jacket and shirt, leaving on his boxers as a barrier between him and Watson should she regain consciousness, and climbed into the tub behind her.

Snagging her loofa poof, he poured a large dollop of her body wash – vanilla, what else? – and started gently washing her skin, wary for any movements which would tell him she was awake again.

He left her nether region for last, hoping she would wake for that and could do that herself. When she didn’t, Sherlock carefully dipped the loofa under the water. He could tell there was more scar tissue there even with the loofa, and curiosity and rage got the better of him.

The lips of her outer labia had been repeatedly sliced; a few of the scars from her buttocks continued down between her legs. Her clitoris had also been clumsily removed; perhaps, he thought with a shudder, it had been bitten off.

Throughout the rest of the bathing, drying, and dressing, Watson remained unmoving and unresponsive, though her heartrate had returned to normal. He even brushed her hair, her head on his knees as he knelt on the bathroom floor.

She finally stirred when he eased her into her bed. “…Sherlock…”

“Shh, you need to rest.” He pulled the covers up.

She shook her head. “I need… I need my makeup bag.” It was slurred somewhat, but at least she was able to string words together better than before.

He frowned. “You’re sick, and about to sleep. I don’t see why you need…” then it dawned on him, and he felt foolish. “That’s where you hid your drugs?” he hadn’t thought to look there, thinking she would want to hide it in her own room.

He fetched the kit for her, searching for a vial and coming up empty. “Where is it?”

She chuckled weakly. “It’s the tube of sheer lip gloss.” She coughed. “Syringes are… the bottom comes up. Syringes are there.”

Sherlock dumped the contents of the kit onto the bed before tugging at the bottom, which came up after some effort; it had been Velcroed down. He grabbed one of the 1mL syringe.

“How much?” he asked.

She thought about it for a moment. “.8mL.” she said. “It’s more… than I usually take, but I haven’t taken any… for a few days, and I think… I think the injection the attacker stuck me with… burned it out of my system.” She held out a shaking hand for the syringe, but drew it back. “Would you mind? I… I might end up breaking it off in my arm right now.”

Sherlock nodded. “IV, IM, or SubQ**?”

“IM.”

Shortly after he injected her, Watson fell back asleep.

Sherlock gathered up the makeup, tucking it all back inside, once again surprised at the ingenuity of how she had hidden her drug, and wondered if it had been her to come up with that, or if who she got the drug from had.

Deciding to make some tea, Sherlock stepped back outside, grabbing the grocery bags she had dropped during her attack.  The eggs had frozen and had to be tossed, but everything else had survived the elements.

It was snowing again.

Back in the kitchen after he refilled the kettle and put it on the stove to heat up, he grabbed another sandwich bag, reversed it and picked up the bloodied keys, setting it sealed up on the table next to the needle tip.

Right after the kettle started whistling, there was a knock on the door. Peering out of the peephole with his wooden sword in hand but it was merely Detective Bell. He inhaled, but couldn’t catch even the faintest scent of Watson’s Omega scent.

Swinging the door wide open, Sherlock said, “Detective Bell. I take it your case has wrapped itself up?”

Bell nodded, rubbing his face; he looked exhausted. “Yeah. We managed to find them, and a few other girls. Human trafficking ring, again. But this one was a different crew than the one we busted last month. This one took female Alphas for male Alphas to purchase.”

That was a new one. Sherlock waved him in. “That’s different. Tea? I just brought the kettle to a boil.”

“Sure.” Bell agreed with a sigh as he followed the other Alpha into the Brownstone. “Watson doing ok?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Doing as well as can be expected.”

Bell stopped in the kitchen doorway. “That’s an odd thing to say,” he said. “If she’s that bad, why isn’t she in the hospital?”

“She didn’t want to go.” Sherlock informed him. “Speaking of Watson, someone attempted to attack her when she was coming home from the store.” He held out the two bags.

“Joan was attacked?” Bell demanded, eyes going from Sherlock to the bag of bloodied keys and needle tip, and back to Sherlock. “Why isn’t she at a hospital?!”

“She begged me to not take her.” Sherlock repeated, holding out the bags with the needle tip and keys again. “She was so upset I didn’t wish to do so further.” He walked through the doorway, standing between Bell and the staircase.

Bell made to attempt to walk around Sherlock. “Is she upstairs?”

Sherlock grabbed the other man and shoved him into the wall. “Leave her alone. She needs rest, not to be questioned.”

Bell studied him, and for one terrifying moment, Sherlock was afraid the detective would shove him away and go up the stairs anyway – Sherlock might be strong, and more dominant, but Bell was far stronger – or leave and then Omega Protective and Monitoring Unit would be knocking on their door shortly after. Not that he really thought the detective would report Joan to be malicious, but because it could very likely cost him his badge if he didn’t report Joan, an Omega masquerading as a Beta? They’d all be in a world of trouble, himself included.

“There’s a reason beyond the attack I shouldn’t go upstairs, isn’t there?” Bell asked, startling Sherlock out of his spiraling thoughts. “What I ‘ _don’t_ _know_ ’ can’t hurt me, can it?”

Sherlock studied the other man for a moment. So he had figured it out too, but hadn’t said anything, hadn’t reported Watson for being an Omega pretending to be a Beta, and him for sheltering her, knowing or no knowing. He sighed in relief. “Very true, Detective.” He backed away so the other man could step away from the wall.

“But please… how is she?”

Since he didn’t seem to be intent on reporting them, as long as he didn’t say the words ‘Joan Watson is really an Omega’, Sherlock didn’t see the harm in telling him. “Watson didn’t know who attacked her. He grabbed her out front and injected her with Ketamine in her neck.”

“Son of a bitch.” Bell growled. He pointed at the bloodied keys, and needle tip. “Did she get him?”

Sherlock smirked. “Of course. On the face, even. Will make it easier to find.” The smile-smirk faded. “The needle broke off in her neck when she twisted around to attack him in defense. She made it inside and locked herself in. I found her passed out in the kitchen when I got home; she was attacked last night.”

Bell swore. “Hell of a powerful Ketamine; must’ve been mixed with something to make it so long.”

“There should be enough of the drug in the needle tip to do a chemical profile.” Sherlock pointed out. “Perhaps something we can trace to a manufacturer or distributer.”

In the end, Bell didn’t stay for tea, but took the bags of evidence, saying he knew one of the Beta lab techs and they owed him a few favors he could use to run both the blood on the keys and the needle off the record.

“Tell Watson I hope she feel better soon.” Bell said as he left, tucking the bags into his pockets. "Take care of her." he added, meeting and holding Sherlock's gaze, not as a challenge, but as trust, as a request for the woman they both cared about, no matter they both knew she could take care of herself most of the time; but that wasn't now.

“I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ketamine is an animal sedative that is used a lot as a date-rape drug. It causes sedation and memory loss, among other things. I wanted to add in DMSO, because from what I remember in school when combined with certain other drugs DMSO can greatly increase the speed of which that other drug takes affect, BUT I'm not positive so I didn't.
> 
> Curare is a natural drug/poison which causes muscle relaxation (including the heart. That is after all, a muscle too).
> 
> IM = Intramuscular, IV = Intravenous, and SubQ = subcutaneous
> 
> Thoughts?? Please tell me what you think!!!


End file.
